


His Name Was Greg

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Grieving, M/M, Sherlock's POV, goldfish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-09
Packaged: 2018-07-22 13:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7441396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"…so it was safe to say that he, my brother, would never have the need for or be interested in having a dull, short-lived goldfish of his own but as it were there was such a goldfish that caught his eye, regardless of whether he wanted it or not, and his name was Greg."</p><p>Sherlocks observations of Mycroft and his feelings in relation to Gregory Lestrade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Name Was Greg

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [И звали его Грег](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10641663) by [thunder_witch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunder_witch/pseuds/thunder_witch)



> Soooo, the absolutely marvellous thunder_witch has rendered this fic worthy enough to be translated into another language, so if you would like to read it in Russian please click on the appropriate link above! 
> 
> (I can not express how freeking thrilled I am that someone has translated one of my fics...yayyyyy!!!!! :D)
> 
> NTW

~~~~~~~~~~

The problem with goldfish is that they only have an average lifespan of ten years.  Certainly, with a meticulously cared for and danger-free environment they can live to three times that amount, or more, with the oldest recorded goldfish being 43 years old, but on average, it is only ten years.  In the scheme of things, it is not long at all and that is, I fear, why my brother never wanted one.  

Despite his reputation of being the _Ice Man_ , I can assure you that Mycroft  did in fact have feelings, it is just that he was a master at keeping them tucked away where no-one (well, almost no-one), would ever see them, so it was safe to say that he, my brother, would never have the need for or be interested in having a dull, short-lived goldfish of his own but as it were there was such a goldfish that caught his eye, regardless of whether he wanted it or not, and his name was Greg.

~o~

In 39 years I had never seen my brother openly grieve, and to be honest, I never thought I would, at least, not in a way that is normally demonstrated by the standards of modern, western society.

I had, on the other hand, seen him completely enamoured with someone, back when he was still in university.  This did not last long, as he returned from Christmas break two days early to find his girlfriend in bed with his room mate, and I have it on good authority that they were sharing a lot more than body heat to ward of the winter chills.

It was this event that saw the first flurries of frost form around the man who is know known as the Ice Man, and as far as I am aware he had never felt anything as deeply as he had for that girl all those years ago, ever again.

But since I first met Greg Lestrade, nine years ago, I was certain that every now and then a little bit of that ice defrosted, just a tiny bit, whenever he was in the presence of the Detective Inspector.

There was an easiness about the way he communicated with the man, and his eyes, normally cold and hard, warmed up a bit.  His smiles, few and small that they were, seemed more genuine and when he laughed, it wasn’t cynical or strained.  These changes were only minuscule - infinitesimal - but to those who knew him well, and that list was limited, it was like a neon light flashing above his head.

There was no doubt about it.  Much to my horror, my brother, Mycroft Edward Holmes, was taken by Gregory Lestrade.  More to my horror was that there was nothing that he was going to do about it.  He had learnt his lesson many years ago and my brother was never one to let himself get burnt twice.  Once a wrong had been done to him he rectified walls and formulated plans to make sure it never happened again and getting involved with Gregory Lestrade was most certainly a sure fire way to go against his carefully honed instincts.

It didn’t help that Greg was still married and insisted on returning to his adulterous wife time and time again.  It didn’t help that, outwardly, Greg didn’t show any signs that he would be interested in a relationship with a male, let alone my brother.  It didn’t help that Mycroft believed that all hearts would be broken, just like his had back at university, but my brothers closed walls and stubborn determination made him blind to certain things.

They made him blind to the fact that Greg only went back to his wife for the sake of the children and because he felt he had nothing else to look forward to - because he felt he wasn’t able to offer anything else to anyone else.  

It made him blind to the fact that Greg’s eye did occasionally wander over the male form.  I myself had been exposed to that pupil blown study, as had my own dear John and so had my own brother, more so than any other individual.  Not only that, but Greg also relaxed on the odd occasion that Mycroft graced him with his presence, laughed at his poor attempt at humour and clumsily asked me about Mycroft on the odd occasion.  

It also made him blind to the fact that Greg was nothing like the little gold-digging tart that Mycroft had grievously handed his heart to all those years ago.  Greg was one of the most loyal and trustworthy men that you would ever meet.

It made my brother blind to the fact that Gregory Lestrade would have been the perfect goldfish for him.

But none of that matters any more.  None of it is worth a thing because Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is dead.

~o~

It could have been avoided, it should have been avoided, but Sally Donovan was too proud to accept help when help was needed and in this case, it was needed.  They were closing in on a drug syndicate but were having trouble finding the final clues to make the final connections that would lead them to the man (or woman) who was in charge of the entire operation.  Sally was due for promotion in the next few years and if she could solve this case then it would be a big gold star on the road to that promotion, but Lestrade was more concerned about the body count, in relation to the case, more so than Sally Donovan’s precious promotion and that was why I had been called in.  

Three dead in the span of nine days.  It wasn’t looking good, no matter how close they thought they were.  Needless to say, Donovan was not happy at all about my involvement.  In fact, she was so unhappy that she had gone above her DI’s head, straight to the imbecile of a Superintendent that John had chinned not all that long ago, and had me officially barred, stating that as a former Junkie I should not be allowed near this case with a ten foot pole.  Due to the fact that the man still held a grudge against John, and by extension, myself, he had agreed and both John and myself be evicted from the case and threatened with imprisonment should we be found anywhere near it.  

That had been Sally’s mistake.

Lestrade had tried to fight in our favour, vouching for my sobriety and arguing that three bodies was too many to worry about things that had never been an issue before, but the Super wouldn’t be moved.  His decision was final and resolute.  Our involvement was to cease immediately.

Greg uttered an apology and promised to fill us in whenever he could stating that even if I could offer a slight insight into what they were up against, it would be better than nothing.

I was tempted to tell the man not to bother.  If my help wasn’t wanted then it wasn’t going to be given, but then I looked at Sally Donovan’s smug expression and decided that, just to spite her, I would solve this case before her and with much less evidence with which to draw upon.  

I gave Lestrade a curt nod to indicate that I would indeed aid him where I could and then tuned and left, John trailing close behind me.  

Had I known that that would be the last time I would see the man alive, I would have fought harder to stay on the case.  I would have called in the one man that I knew would happily override the final decision, but I had assumed that I would solve this first.  

That had been my mistake.

~o~

It was early the following morning that I was woken up by my phone vibrating on the coffee table.  I reached out and looked at the caller I.D.  

Mycroft.

I was going to ignore it, but then noted the time.  5:27 am.  Mycroft would not call at this hour unless it was truely important, so I swiped my thumb across the screen and took the call.

“Mycroft” was all I said.

All he said in return was, “Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is dead” and then he hung up.

~o~

As soon as I had found out what had happened I knew what had gone wrong and how I could have prevented it from happening, _had I been allowed on the case!_

The house that their leads had lead them to had been more heavily manned than they anticipated; _the sheer foolishness of some people_.  Lestrade hadn’t seen it coming and he was dead before his body hit the ground, the bullet in his head, too early ending the life of a good man.  

The group had quickly disbanded and fled, including the one who had pulled the trigger.  The two that had been caught were refusing to talk.

I would never let Sally Donovan forget her mistake of having me thrown off the case, for I certainly would never forget, nor forgive myself, for walking away all too easily, but I digress.  This tale is not about me, nor is it about Sally.  It is not even about Gregory Lestrade.

It is about my brother.

~o~

As I have said previously, I have seen Mycroft when he is enamoured with someone.  I have seen him show it openly, directed towards a woman who never deserved an ounce of his affections and I have seen him hold it close to himself, beneath the shield of indifference and uncaring, whenever he was in close proximity to my DI; his _Gregory_.  I doubt very much that I will see it again.

As I have also mentioned I had never seen him openly grieve, but I _had_ seen him grieve, twice.  

Once, when our dog was put down.  Redbeard was mine more than anyone else’s in the family and the closed off grieving was more for my own benefit than for any real loss that he felt (which had been little, for sure) but it was there all the same.  The second time was more personal, when our Grandfather, Reginald Holmes II died of lung cancer when Mycroft was twenty-three.  Reginald had been a mentor to Mycroft, more so than our own father (who is a great man if a bit of a doddering fool), and his loss hit Mycroft hard, not that anyone on the outside would have known.  But I know Mycroft.  I know the small nuances that he normally does not portray except when emotion is compromising his mind and over the days following that phone call those nuances would become apparent once more, along with new tells that proved my brother was just as capable as feeling as the next man, for Mycroft was grieving once more.

~o~

If the phone call at 5:27 hadn’t been a dead give away that something was wrong with my brother then the fact that, later that morning, I walked from the bathroom, after showering, to find John standing in the doorway from the kitchen to the living room, just staring was a blaring siren.  It soon became apparent that what he was staring at was indeed my brother, sitting on Johns chair, silent and unmoving.

“He hasn’t said a word” John had whispered to me.  

“Would you mind giving us some time?” I had asked in return.  I knew it would be hard for John, to go out into the word as if nothing had changed.  He and Lestrade had been good friends, but at the moment my brothers state of mind was more important.

John, always understanding and accommodating, nodded briefly and left, leaving me with my brother.

I remember slowly making my way to my chair and sitting across from him.  It had been a while since I had seen my brother anything but engaged and determined.  My last stint in rehab was the last time I could recall him looking so…drained.  

“I have a case” Mycroft said automatically, his sense of arrogance and self-righteousness returning the second I had set my gaze to meet his, but there was an underlying hint of loss there, something not quite right.  I ignored it in favour of playing his little game.  It was obviously something he needed in order to cope.

“I am not taking any cases on at the moment” I had told him, looking flippantly away.  It was true.  John had asked me to promise to take on nothing, at least not until Lestrades funeral was over.  It was a promise easily made and then I would be putting in all of my efforts into locating the low-life scum that had pulled the trigger which had taken away a dear friend of mine.  If I hadn’t vowed to do that anyway, my brothers obvious distress certainly would have driven me to do so, but as it was, this was a hurt to everyone, not just Mycroft and not just myself.  Lestrade would be avenged, Sergeant Donovan and Superintendent Kelly be damned.

“It is of national importance” Mycroft urged as he smoothly pulled a grey folder out of his brief case and dropped it on the coffee table.  “I’m sure you will find plenty of time to look it over.  I can’t imagine it would take too long to sort out.  I would do it myself, but…leg work.”

The fact that that entire spiel was rushed, a breath hardly taken, was yet another clear sign that something was wrong with the man who normally made sure he thought his words through and spoke in clear, even tones at a perfectly polite and respectable speed.  Rushed words were for those who were unprepared or in a dire hurry.  Mycroft was neither.

“I expect I will hear back from you by the end of tomorrow regarding the matter” he finished off and then stood, brief case in one hand, umbrella in the other.  

“Mycroft” I had said, hoping to ascertain how he was, but he bid me farewell in that brash manner that he has and removed himself from my flat. 

I stared at the door until I heard him leave the building and then picked up the file, rifling through it.  An hour and a half later and it was solved, no leg work needed and I remember the feeling, at that very moment, of realising that Mycroft hadn’t come to me because of a case at all.  He had come to me to reassure himself that I was still okay.  Nothing had happened to me.  He wouldn’t be mourning the loss of another that day.  

I was his reassurance that he could continue on and looking back, I realised he had done this very thing after our grandfather had died.  He had moved back home for a month and had felt the need to try and engage with me, even if it was to tell me to stop acting like an indolent, spoilt little brat.  He had made sure there was still a person in his life that he could turn to, could count on.  

If that was what Mycroft needed to get over this hurdle, a reassurance, then a reassurance was what I would give him.

~o~

**The case was a 1 at best.  Next time try harder or don’t bother engaging my services at all. - SH**

The text was sent at 2:30 the following morning.  John had told me to stop being an arse before going back to sleep.  I heard nothing back from Mycroft, at least, not until the later that morning.

~o~

“The funeral is going to be on Monday at 11:30am” was what I was greeted with when I had answered my phone at 5:27 am.  “St Andrews.”

The call was ended and I committed the details to memory before settling back down in bed, trying and failing to go back to sleep.

~o~

Later that day I was picked up, leaving St Barts, by a very familiar black saloon.  With a perfectly executed exasperated huff and several muttered curses, which meant nothing, I slid into the car and glared at my brother, taking in his appearance as I did.  His skin was slightly more pasty than usual and he had slight shadowing under his eyes.  I knew that he would no doubt explain it away as being an overload of issues and complications at work so I left it unmentioned.  His suit was as pompous and as pristine as ever, except for his tie.  Gone was his usual silk, replaced with a silk/cotton blend, something more often found adorned around the neck of those who worked even more minor government jobs than my brother, say maybe Detective Inspectors, but once again I left it unmentioned.  Instead I sneered at him and snapped.  

“What now, Mycroft?”

“Is John aware that you are smuggling necrotic limbs into the flat again?”  was his response as the car pulled into traffic.

“I hardly see how any of this is any of your business.”

“I just want to see the domestic bliss of 221B Baker Street continue.  It is good not having to deal with complaints that you are hacking into everyone on the street’s wifi and changing their passwords, in a fit of sulks.”

“It wasn’t sulks, Mycroft, it was boredom.  If it happened to coincide when John was having a particularly emotional day…”

“You got him drunk and then talked him into getting your name tattooed on his…well, needless to say, I think he had a right to be _emotional_.”

“It’s not like it is his first tattoo and I hardly had to talk him into anything.”  I remember all too well trying to sound put out and petulant at that memory, but it was in fact hard to hide the glee at actually talking John into the act.  It was just pure luck that I had an acquaintance, who happened to own a tattoo studio, on standby, who would have no reservations, whatsoever, in permanently marking a very inebriated man.  It had been a pleasant evening indeed.

Mycroft had interrupted my musings by letting out a frustrated huff of air.

“He is a good man, Sherlock.  Treat him right.”

It was then that the car pulled up in front of Baker Street and I looked into Mycrofts eyes and saw the pain that was there, just briefly, before it was gone, to be replaced by something that he often wore in my presence - something mixed between smug patronisation and irritated exasperation. 

To this day I don’t know why I did it, and to this day I don’t regret it.  I dropped my act of spoilt, annoying, childish little brother and presented myself as someone who cared deeply for the person before me.  Placing my hand on his knee, I gave it a brief squeeze.  “I will, Mycroft.  I promise” and I exited the car, leaving two forearms and a thigh on the back seat.

~o~

The next time I heard from my brother was during another early morning phone call the following day.  This time I had been somewhat prepared for it, my body waking up of its own accord at 5:26.  Sure enough, at 5:27 my phone rang, Mycrofts name lighting up the screen.

“Mycroft” I answered.

There was no reply.  I could barely hear him breathing, but from what I could hear, I knew straight away that it was my brother.  I waited, patiently for him to make the next move.  It took a whole minute.

“Sherlock” he said.  It wasn’t sad, nor angry.  It wasn’t said in a heart wrenching, shuddering breath.  It was just said, in his voice, plain and simple and then the connection died.

~o~

The following two days went on like that.  Every morning at 5:27, Mycroft would call me to tell me something.  That one night, where all he had said was my name, was the only time he had not had a bit of information for me.  

The first morning was to remind me to send flowers to Aunt Iris as it was her 70th birthday today, like I could care less.

The second day was to inform me that my dry cleaning would be delivered to Baker Street by no later than 10:00 that morning.  

He continued to impose his presence upon myself and John under the guise that he wanted something from us or needed to reprimand me of some foolish act I had partaken in.  

I saw through all of it for what it really was.  It was his reassurance that things were as they should be.  Well, as should be as they could be without Lestrade there anymore, and I did my best to remind him that I was still here for him, as unchanging or as understanding as he needed me to be.  It was, and probably almost-always would be, the former.  Mycroft doesn’t appreciate people mollycoddling him or pandering to the whims of the human psyche, the riot of chemicals that we can’t control, but threatened to control us if we let them.  He doesn’t like people acknowledging his fumbling’s with sentiment and, the incident in the car notwithstanding, it was not, and still is not, something that I would force upon him, so I carried on with my usual acerbic, arsehole-ish ways and if he left, slightly more himself than when he arrived, then it was never mentioned.  No to him, not to John and not to anyone else who happened to be near.

We continued on as always and I provided him with the assurance and stability that he clearly needed at that particular time.  

There was no telling how long this new dynamic in our little game would go on, and for once, I didn’t care.  I didn’t seek out how to outmanoeuvre him, to try and guess his next move.  I just let him lead and acted accordingly.

~o~

Monday morning I awoke at 5:26 am and waited.  I waited for the phone call that had become a norm for my brother and I, but it never came.  The minutes ticked by but my phone stayed silent.  I wasn’t sure what it meant.  Usually I could deduce what Mycroft was playing at.  I would know what was running through his mind, but this past week, he hadn’t been in his right mind, at least, not completely.  I thought the call would have come, even if nothing was said.  After all, the man who had warmed his heart was being buried today.

That thought brought my attention to the two dry cleaning bags hanging on the wardrobe and I wondered if Mycroft was deciding what suit he would wear to the funeral, (because he would be there, of that I was sure).  Indecisiveness had been one of the symptoms he had experienced the last times he had mourned someone.

I lay in my bed, listening to Johns gentle snores as I contemplated my brother.  He had been acting accordingly - keeping himself too busy, reassuring himself that those close to him were still there, indecisiveness.  He had even starting eating pastries again, an indulgence he usually held himself back from due to the fact that he had a slow metabolism, but there were signs and I just didn’t have it in me to taunt him about it.  Mycroft needed his idiosyncrasies to help him get through this stage of his life.  I would sooner cut off my fingers then make it harder for him than it already was.  Some things just didn’t need to carry on as normal, at least, not yet anyway.

~o~

The funeral was much like many others I had attended in my life.  There were people, many of them.  Not surprising, Lestrade was a well liked man.  As people settled into the pews I kept a careful eye out for my brother.  There was so far no sign, but I still had faith that I knew my brother well enough to know that he would arrive.

It was as the priest stood up to address the congregation that, out of the corner of my eye, I  saw a familiar movement.  With a slight adjustment of my head I saw that my brother had indeed arrived, slotting himself into the back aisle, not far from where John and myself were seated, to listen as Gregory Lestrade was farewelled from this life one last time.

Throughout the service I kept facing forward, but while still being aware of my brothers presence, his posture, his movements.  As was his norm, he sat stock still and listened politely to the people who stood up and said nice things about the man who had left us all too soon.  

I had been asked to say a piece, but my experience with public speaking had run its course with John’s wedding.  There would be no repeat, but John spoke for the both of us, even managing to get a murmur of a chuckle from the crowd, but that was John for you, able to bring out the best in people, able to make them smile.  I had heard him bring out a genuine laugh from my very own brother once before, (something trite at my expense), but not today.  Today my brothers sat emotionless, not a single twitch of his lips, not a single quivering of an eye.  There was nothing.  Just an impassive, impersonal, indifferent man, sitting amongst many others.  To an outsider he would appear almost uncaring in the fact that he didn’t even look sad, but the line of his lips was too tight, the slight squint around his eyes wasn’t just a passing linger of expression, the grip of his fingers, as they lay clasped in his lap, was just a bit too tight, tight enough to still the slight way that they trembled as he held himself proper.   The perfect British Gentleman.

That was how he sat, throughout the entire proceedings, until Mrs Lestrade took her turn to talk about the man she should have loved.  As she spoke I saw a darkness take over my brothers face.  As she prattled on about Lestrade being the perfect father to their children and a wonderful husband, my brothers grip on his own hands became tighter to the point where I could see his knuckles whitening.  When she spoke about how much he had loved her, and how much she cherished that love, my brother stood up and left the church.  

I can recall how very clearly I too wanted to stand up, but it was not to follow in my brothers footsteps.  No.  If I were to have stood up, right then, it would have been to tell Mrs Lestrade exactly why she was undeserving of a man such as her late husband, and how she was unworthy of any emotion he had expended on her.  But, as I sat there, thinking these things, I could hear the John that resided in my head whispering ‘ _bit not good_ ’ so I kept my mouth shut and stayed seated and listened to the woman speak of a man who was, by far, too good for her.  I knew not her name, even though I had been told on multiple occasions what it was.  I pretended to forget Gregs regularly, someone I admired, just to get a rise out of him (and sometimes John) but she was nothing but a lying cheating hussy and was not worth that much space in my mind palace.  The only reason she had a corner at all was so I could recognise the signs in Greg that she was cheating again.  After today, she would be completely evicted, no longer allowed that precious space inside my head.  But for the time, I sat and behaved myself.

That was until the next speaker.  

Once Mrs Lestrade had made her way from the podium, back to the front pew with her children and her sister, who handed the sobbing woman a tissue and offered her a hug, the one person I did not want to see stood up and made her way to the front.

“Gregory Lestrade was a great man” Sally Donovan started.  “He was a supportive boss, a great family man and a wonderful friend.”

The anger that had simmered away as the first woman had spoken was now starting to boil over and it was all I could do not to stand up and yell to everyone in the church the exact reason why we were all gathered there that day.  

I glared my most filthiest glare at the woman who was still addressing the crowd and then glared extra, for Mycroft.  Johns smaller hand, slipping into my own and squeezing it couldn’t even quell any of that anger, not this time round, and when Sally finally caught my eye, her tongue tripped and tumbled over the carefully prepared words she had memorised and she paled somewhat.  Quickly she had looked away, but I kept my gaze, one full of such hatred I had felt only a few times before in my life.  From that point on her speech no longer seemed as confident and that appeased me somewhat.  It meant that she knew I was still glaring at her.  It meant that she knew, she would _always_ know.  This, this need of this ridiculous tradition, this need to say goodby, this is partly her fault.  I had wanted to feel content that that knowledge will always be on her conscience but I couldn’t, because it will always be on mine as well.  Because of my mistake I lost a good friend and my brother lost the chance to be happy, as happy as I was, as I still am.  Mycroft would never have that now, or at least, if he could, he would never allow it.  Not again.

~o~

The sun was low in the sky when I returned to the cemetery and, as expected, I was not the only one to be visiting the fresh grave, that is still bereft a headstone.  The small mountain of flowers and cards attested to the admiration felt for the man that was laid to rest beneath the freshly turned soil.

Standing to the side, looking down at a small bunch of flowers that he held in his hand, was Mycroft.

_Red Cypress - death, mourning, despair, sorrow; Rue - regret, sorrow, repentance; Marigold - pain and grief; Jasmine - unconditional and eternal love._

I stopped at the foot of the grave and looked up at the sky, streaked with yellow and orange and when I looked back, the small bouquet had joined the others.

“He was just a man” Mycroft finally said, taking a step back from the grave.  It might have been almost convincing if it weren’t for the fact that he still hadn’t torn his gaze away from the flowers, and his voice was barely louder than a whisper. 

“A man you loved” I clarified, because we both knew it.

A blank look took over Mycrofts face before he spoke, his voice void of all emotion.  “I hardly knew him.”

“You probably knew him better than anyone else.” It was true.  Mycroft would have done multiple background checks on the man, the first night he had pulled me out of a dingy crack house, something I will always be grateful for.  He would have tracked the man through phone calls, emails, text messages and CCTV footage.  Mycroft would have taken in every small tell and nuance that Greg Lestrade would have presented with every personal interaction they had with each other.  He would have known all of the man’s likes and hates.  He would have known him, but not well enough.

“It doesn’t matter now does it.  He is gone.  He is not coming back.”  Finally Mycroft turned and looked down at me, daring me to dispute the fact.

“He took something with him though” I told my brother, because it was true.  The night Lestrade had been shot he left us and wth him went a part of my brother. 

Mycroft looked at me, one eyebrow raised in confusion and he almost looked like his old self again.  

“You were different around him” I explained.  “You were like your old self, like the one from my childhood.  I can see it in your eyes, you no longer possess that.  He took that when the bullet entered his head.”

Mycrofts eyebrow relaxed, sitting where it was meant to be, next to the other one and he suddenly looked so tired.  “Yes, well, we all know you were a fanciful child, what you remember and what was are not necessarily synonymous” he responded and then turned away and began to walk down the gravel path, away from me and away from Greg. 

“This has nothing to do with me Mycroft” I called out to him, needing to turn this back onto him, needing to let him know that sometimes, sentiment was not a bad thing.  “You loved him, there is no shame in that.”

At my words my brother stopped, his head hanging down, and if it hadn’t been so quiet in the graveyard then I never would have heard his parting words.  “No, you are right” he murmured quietly, sounding dejected and beaten.   “But is there shame in not acting on it when I had the chance?”

I had nothing to add to that.  Anything I could have said, would have been ignored, so I let him walk away.

~o~

At 5:27 am my phone rang.  I hadn’t been to bed, I knew I wouldn’t sleep.  The funeral was over, therefore I was free of my promise to John to not investigate any cases and there was one case that I needed to solve, if not for the peace of my mind, then for the peace of someone else’s, and it was that very person who was calling me in the darkened hours of early morning.

“Mycroft” I greeted and again there was silence.  I believed this to be one of those phone calls where nothing was said, but then a shuddering gasp was heard and my brother spoke.  At first I hadn’t recognised him, his voice, usually so confident and arrogant, was now a broken husk of its former self.  It is one I have never heard my brother use before nor since, and probably will never again.

“Sherlock” he gasped, a small sob escaping on the _K_.  “I should have told him.”

Again there was silence and I wasn’t sure what to do.  Mycroft, despite whatever it was that he had gone through in the past, never actually sought out the need for comfort.  

“I should have let him know that there was something better for him, that he had everything to offer a partner.”

Once more there was silence and I heard what sounded like a muffled sniffle.  I had finally decided that it was time for me to do my brotherly duty and I opened my mouth to form something resembling comfort, but Mycroft cut me off before I could even get started.

“No, don’t speak, just listen” he asked of me and I nodded, despite the fact that he couldn’t see me.

“I should have been less guarded.  I should have taken that risk.” The way his voice quivered made my heart break, just a bit, for my brother was a strong man.  A proud man that never regretted a decision that he made.  He learnt from it or turned it around to work in his favour, and here he was, lamenting the biggest regret he had, would, ever have in his life and there was nothing that I could do to make it better for him.

“I should have told Gregory that there was someone who would have put his happiness first.”  I remember my breath catching as Mycrofts throat caught on _his happiness_.

“I was a coward.” The last word was spat and I could hear the anger in mycrofts voice.  The anger that he was directing at himself.  “If I had done something sooner everything may have turned out differently but I was scared.”  Again, the last word was snarled and I could practically feel the self loathing extending through the phone, for I too, felt the same, but for different reasons.  “I should have told him, Sherlock.  I should have let him know.”  

By that stage I could barely stand the emotion that was wrapped around my brothers words, and I had sunk down into Johns chair, my head hanging in grief while I held the phone to my ear as I realised that my brother was crying.  Not openly sobbing, with heaving wails, but I could hear the way his breath trembled, the slight sniffling and the bitten off sobs that never made it past his throat.  

Never, in my entire life, had I seen my brother cry.  Not once and now, here he was, mourning a love that he never allowed himself to have.

“I love him, Sherlock, and now I can’t tell him.  I will _never_ be able to tell him.  What am I supposed to do with all of this?  I can still feel it and I can’t do anything with it.”

I had nothing to say and I had never, ever, felt so helpless in my life.  I hope I never do again.  A million things passed through my mind; _‘It will get better with time’; ‘There will be others’; ‘It is just grief, everybody feels things like this’; ‘I am here for you’._   What I did say was “I honestly don’t know” and at that my brother broke down, the sobs, quiet as they were, no longer held back and the tears that had been pooling in my eyes since I had first heard him speak finally spilled over onto my cheeks.  It wasn’t Greg who I was crying for though, even though I hadn’t - not on hearing about his death, not at the funeral - no.  My sorrow was for Mycroft, for I had honestly believed that the man could not break.  Crack on the odd occasion, yes, but break?  If I hadn’t been witness to it I never would have believed it, but here we were, separated by miles of brick and mortar and bitumen and concrete, yet it was the closest we had ever been and I sat with my brother while he finally, openly grieved for the first time in his life, offering my silent support while he broke down and crumbled under the weight of loss and regret and love.

~o~

It has been three months, to the day, since the death of Gregory Lestrade and not once in that time have I seen my brother thaw out in the slightest.  He has immersed himself even further in the work, although I never thought that were even possible.  

His phone calls at odd hours of the night have come to an end - they had since that night my brother broke.  He has since put himself back together again, but he has never been quite right.  There are now faint cracks in the surface, visible to only those who know to look for them. His visits are still continuing though.  I pretend to be annoyed at his presence, continue the charade that we have perfected over the years.  He keeps up the pretence of meddling where he has no right to meddle and then he will leave, back to the cold windowless room that serves as an office, the ever present Anthea, (Rowena, Thalia, or whatever name she chooses this week), as his only form of companionship.  

He keeps up his regular fortnightly calls to Mummy, yet even she senses something off, in turn feeling the need to call me to find out what is wrong with her Mykie.

“He is grieving” I tell her.

“Look after him, Sherlock” she asks of me and how can I refuse, for I myself have known love and I have also known grief, but I can only imagine what I would do if the one I loved was also the one I was grieving, and the only image I can conjure brings back dark memories indeed, so I ask again, how can I refuse my brother - my friend, my enemy, my mentor, my blood - this one thing?  Of course I will look out for him and I too will grieve, not only for a man lost to us all too soon, but also for the love that my brother will not feel again, for I would bet my life, no, my mind, that he will never allow himself another goldfish again, not even a glimpse.  He will refortify his walls and make contingency plans to make sure that never happens again, but I cannot bemoan the fact that once there was a man that made my brother think about felling those walls and shredding the plans that guarded and governed his heart.

Yes, there was a man, not so long ago, that thawed my brothers heart and his name was Greg. 


End file.
